


I Meant It, You'll See

by OtherWorldsIveLivedIn



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bad Flirting, Banter, Because in any verse these boys are dumb, Developing Relationship, Early twenties Snowbaz, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everything was the same… just no magic, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Great we kissed! Now what?, Housemates, Humour, Jealous Simon, Lack of Communication, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Romcom Train Station Chases, Roommates, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow Talk About Feelings, feel good fic, starring Coffee Making Machine as Wingman, texting fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn
Summary: If I’d have known when I woke up this morning that I’d be chasing after a bloke with what I’m pretty sure are romantic feelings sloshing around in my gut, I’d have gone straight back to bed.Especially if I’d known that bloke would beBaz.But, I have to go after him. I can’t let him board that train without telling him I meant it.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 94
Kudos: 162





	1. Running out of time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiara_scuro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiara_scuro/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Three Sheets to the Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018483) by [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn). 



> **!!! HAPPY ONE YEAR OF POSTING SNOWBAZ FIC TO ME !!!**
> 
> This is the first multi-chapter fic I ever wrote… Which I think you can tell because it’s completely pre-Wayward Son with no angst 😂 (I did however go back in during edits and change the Parisian Hottie to be Lamb, because I think it works well.)
> 
> I never posted this fic because, at the time, I was way too nervous… and then I mostly forgot about it. BUT, I have dusted it off for this momentous occasion.
> 
> It’s light-hearted and banterous and all in all a chill fic, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> **Dearest N,**
> 
> Given I still haven’t finished your crochet/ice rink kisses fic (because I’m a mess of a human), please take this humble offering in the meantime 🥰
> 
> It’s has that kiss you asked for right from the outset, friend, and I hope you enjoy it ❤️
> 
> This fic now has a “sequel” of sorts... you can read it here 🥰:  
> [Three Sheets to the Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018483)
> 
> Thank you to [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) for beta’ing and being an all round great friend ❤️

** Simon**

I exit Euston station and start running as fast as I can; feet pounding across the pavement, trying to dodge the people going about their business like my world hasn’t just spun off its axis.

I don’t even know what I’m doing.

If I’d have known when I woke up this morning that I’d be chasing after a bloke with what I’m pretty sure are romantic feelings sloshing around in my gut, I’d have gone straight back to bed.

Especially if I’d known that bloke would be _Baz._

8 months since I answered his ad on Spareroom. 

8 months of living together again and actually getting along in some weird, unspoken continuation of our boyhood truce.

8 months and I only figured out I had feelings for him not even an hour ago. Because that’s what they are, aren’t they? _Feelings_ for Baz.

I don’t know why I’m surprised—I lived with him for 8 _years_ back at Watford and still had no clue I was attracted to him until I stuck my tongue down his throat. Maybe he’s right, maybe I am thick.

* * *

**_(40 minutes ago)_ **

“I’ll miss you, Baz.” My voice was soft and hesitant because I was already embarrassed over pulling him in for a hug before I’d even comprehended moving. He’d tensed for a few seconds before relaxing and mumbling “I’ll miss you too, Simon,” as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

I’d pulled back slightly, arms still wrapped around his middle, and looked up at him.

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the use of my first name. Maybe it was how beautiful his grey eyes look up close. Maybe it was the memory of how he’d spent the past three days gushing about his PhD weekender host _Lamb_ (who I’m just now realising I probably hate out of jealousy), but I leaned in and pressed my lips against his.

I wasn’t soft or subtle or gentle about it. I’ve never been one for grace and I practically shoved my face into his like it was a challenge. He didn’t back down though, he never has. 

When I felt Baz kiss me back, it was like a dam had broken. Images from the last eight months flooded my mind as I deepened the kiss:

 _Baz on the sofa, hair tied up loosely, drinking tea or napping or wiping the floor with me at Fifa. Baz in the kitchen swaying in tight dark blue jeans and bobbing his head as 80s music played on the radio. Baz at 1am, stumbling in drunk, wearing a suit and banging loudly on my door because he’d brought pizza._ (I thought I was annoyed at the late hour, but come to think of it I had cheered up immensely when he’d told me his equally as posh date had been “the most boring person to cross the Atlantic”.)

And, as I reached up to run my hands through his hair, my mind reached much further back, pulling out images I’d shoved down when I was kid:

_Baz’s long legs and firm thighs in shorts while he ran on the pitch. Baz’s face a mask of unusual calm as I sneaked a view of him playing the violin through the music room window. Baz’s cool breath on my face as he pushed me against the chapel wall, yelling at me to stop following him for the thousandth time._

And, as I moved to kiss along his jaw and down his neck and heard his breath hitch, there was no hiding it from myself anymore. I loved him, didn’t I? Maybe I always had.

His Uber app had interrupted us, and as he’d pulled back to look at me, I knew from the expression on his face that he was waiting for me to explain myself. But I couldn’t. I was too damn busy waiting for the rest of my brain to catch up with my epiphany and what I’d just bloody done.

His face had stiffened into a blank mask, eyes cold as he turned on his heel and walked out with a flat, “Bye, Snow”.

* * *

I had to go after him. I couldn’t let him board that train without telling him I meant it. We’d done that once already. I’d left then, five years ago on Christmas Eve and he’d pretended nothing had ever happened. And then, after everything, I was too messed up to even think about my feelings for another person. Let alone for a _boy._ I can’t let that happen again.

So now here I am, skidding to a stop outside the doors of St Pancras and hoping I’m not too late.

I miss the signs for the Eurostar in my hurry and have to double back. I’m lucky Baz is too snobby to take the tube and insists on using taxis—even though it takes double the amount of time to get anywhere in Central London because of the bloody traffic. He also mentioned wanting to pick up a book from Hatchards—even though I’d watched him pack four into his suitcase already—so I’m hoping I have enough time to get there before he does.

I arrive outside Security—panting and sweaty—to see the sign hasn’t called for his train yet. I think I might still have some time. Good, I need to plan what I’m going to say. Fuck, I should have done this while I was running. This is _Baz_ we’re talking about. He’s articulate and eloquent and I’ll sure as hell have no chance of getting a word in edgeways if I’m my usual bumbling mess.

I’m practising my speech when I see him round the corner, suitcase in one hand, Hatchards bag in the other. Okay, breathe Simon, you can do this. Ten more steps, five...

He pulls up short when he notices me step out in front of him, initial shock falling into a stony expression. I try to swallow but my mouth has gone dry. _Use your words, Snow,_ I hear him sneer in my mind and the first thing that comes out is,

“I’m sorry.”


	2. Gotta get it off my chest

** Simon**

“I’m sorry.”

“You ran all the way here just to tell me that? I’m assuming you ran, given your sweaty state—or do trains get you all hot and bothered?” His voice drips with disdain as he gives my damp t-shirt a pointed look.

Defensive. Great. “That’s not what I meant, I–”

“So you’re not sorry? No matter. I’ll be back on Monday, Snow, try not to burn down the flat by setting fire to your Supernoodles.”

That throws me off, as I’m sure was his intention. “That was one time, you arse!”

“Hm. Well, as nice as this was, Snow, I have somewhere to be. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

Wait, what?

He doesn’t stay for my response, stepping around me like I’m a piece of rubbish and striding away. “Just wait a sec…” I call, stumbling after him.

Christ, why does he have to be so _Baz_ about this?

“This is important, please just let me explain.” I grab his arm and he curls his lip at my touch. 

He turns fully and fixes me with the same polite look he gave our neighbour that one time when she shouted at us for racing each other up the stairs, before he proceeded to apologise to her in a tone I can only describe as sinister.

I swallow harshly. Shit.

“There’s no need–”

“Baz, just—”

“–I’ve quite forgotten the whole thing already–”

“Baz, I–”

“–and it seems you’re incredibly confused over why you’re even here–”

“No, Baz, if you’ll just–”

“–so maybe it would be prudent for us to–”

“Shut the fuck up, Baz!” I shout over him.

People around us turn to look at me in shock but I couldn’t care less. I can’t stand it when Baz speaks to me as if we’re having some kind of business transaction.

His face turns murderous as he lets go of his suitcase to poke a finger into my chest.

“Listen to me,” he growls, voice low and menacing. I open my mouth to state my defence, but he jabs me again with his finger. “No, _shut up._ You kissed and ran once already but we’re not eighteen anymore, Snow, and I won’t be used as a test subject for your sexuality.”

“You’re not–”

“And furthermore, I don’t appreciate you running in here with some grand hero gesture of an apology, just to make yourself feel better for playing with my emotions.”

“That’s not–” But my interruptions just seem to be fueling his rage, and he won’t stop.

“I haven’t wanted to tear you limb from limb since we were kids, Snow, but so help me if you don’t move...”

I stop listening and try to focus on how to get these words out of my head, in the right order, while he’s spitting fire at me. I have to try. There must be something I can say that can fix this.

“...what cause you would have to behave in this way–”

“Because I fucking like you, you complete arsehole!”

Well. That’s probably not it.

He’s shocked into silence though, and it’s now or never to bumble onwards before he launches into another fucking soliloquy.

“I never should have left you that Christmas, but I’m not letting you pretend it all away this time.” I try to sound firm. “If I thought I was obsessed with you then, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. You’re on my mind, _always_ , Baz. And when we’re together at the flat—even if it’s just you forcing me to listen to your tripe audiobooks—I literally can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. I like what we’ve been doing these past few months; the hanging out, the trusting each other and having fun. I want that. I want _you._ Sharp edges and all.”

“I think you’re just confused, Simon.” He sounds defeated. That’s not what I wanted. “You’re confusing wanting my friendship with wanting _me_.”

I huff a dry, humourless laugh. “If that’s true, then why haven’t I been able to get that image of you running down the hall when you forgot your towel that one time out of my head?”

His eyes widen and I take the opportunity to grab his free hand in mine.

“I liked our kiss this morning a hell of a lot, yeah? I want to keep doing that, Baz. I want you here with me so we can keep doing that. Not off with Lamb eating fancy pastries on his Parisian balcony.”

Baz laughs and allows his fingers to thread through mine. “Your apparent vendetta against Lamb has been absurd from the start, Snow.”

“Yeah, well it makes a lot more sense now that we know I’m clearly jealous, don’t it?”

Baz gives a thoughtful hum as he drops my hand in favour of cupping my cheek, studying my face. I close my eyes and lean into him. This feels so right. His thumb strokes back and forth across my cheekbone and he must find what he’s looking for because I open my eyes to the sight of Baz Pitch _smiling._ It’s soft, and a little shy. I love him so much. I could tell him… but I think it’s too soon.

“Can I kiss you, Baz?”

He presses his lips to mine fiercely in response and my brain short circuits. I can feel this kiss shoot like a live wire down my back and pool in my stomach. I shiver. Yeah, it’s definitely not friendship that I want.

I moan a little too obscenely for a public setting when he scratches his nails across the shaved section at the back of my head, but the overhead calls for the passengers of his train to approach Security and it’s over all too quickly.

“I’ll see you when you get back, yeah?” I’m a little breathless and I can hear how eager I sound. It’s definitely embarrassing. And I definitely don’t care.

“We live together Snow, you’ve no choice,” he deadpans. (He’s such an arse.) (I love him.)

“Yeah but you know what I mean, right? You’re not gonna pretend this didn’t happen, ‘cause it did, yeah? Us, it’s real.” I’m grinning, I can’t stop grinning.

He’s watching me. I _think_ that look in his eyes is a good thing—he seems wary, but his face is still soft.

“Baz?” I push. 

“Yes,” he states.

“Yes, what?” It’s silly, but I need to hear him say it.

He looks at me in that way he does when I’m being particularly frustrating; but I see a smile hovering on the edge of his lips, as if he finds me amusing against his better judgement.

“Yes Simon, the kisses were real.” And then he leans down to plant another on my cheek, before winking at me and sauntering towards the sliding Security doors.

I spend way too long watching him go—watching the way his long legs move in those jeans of his. I don’t feel bad about it, I’m allowed to do that now. Now we’re… snogging? Or, maybe I _will_ be allowed, when he gets back? Is that how this works?

Fuck, I need to call Penny.


	3. Didn’t think this through

** Simon**

“...and then he got on his train.”

“ _Jesus, Mary and Joseph,_ ” Penny breathes.

“Yeah,” I agree.

“You have feelings–”

“Yep!” I interrupt. I don’t want to talk about the feelings part of this right now. Especially in how they relate to a _man._ Let alone the fact that that man is _Baz._

“So… are you guys together now, or?”

“Er…”

Wait, _are we together?_ It’s just now occurring to me that we didn’t actually agree to anything other than us seeing each other when he got home. And that was a given anyway as, like he said, he bloody well lives here.

All of my earlier confidence has drained away along with the adrenaline. I groan down the phone. “Flipping heck, I’m no good at this, Pen.”

“Oh, Simon, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Baz is in Paris for his PhD, he’s hardly going to get it on with some stranger.”

“What? Do you think that’s an option? Oh bollocks, of _course_ it’s an option! He’s going to give a fantastic presentation and everyone will see how smart he is and then they’ll all go for drinks and some snooty tosser will approach him to compliment his discourse on whatever the fuck—which will definitely happen Pen, because I saw that he packed his suit with the dark green lapels you remember me telling you that one time and–”

“SIMON!” Penny shrieks down the phone and I come to an abrupt stop. “Gordon Bennett, Simon! You’re spiralling. Take a breath. In through the nose, remember.”

“Sorry. You’re right. I just wish that I’d gotten some more confirmation. I don’t know.” I groan dramatically and pull at my hair until it hurts.

“Oh Si, why don’t you just text him?”

“And say what, Pen? _…Oh sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could get written confirmation that you won't sleep with Lamb on your weekend away?_ ”

“You really need to let this Lamb thing go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble.

“I’m serious. You wouldn’t shut up about that Florian the week before Baz went out with him for cocktails, and I’m not listening to it now that you know Baz bloody well has intense feelings for you!”

“He never said they were intense, Pen.” He never actually said he had _feelings_ for me at all. But it was _implied._ Wasn’t it?

“I told you when I visited in Feb that Baz still seemed into you, Si. I know that kiss was years ago, but he watches you all the time. I don’t think he’s as good at hiding it as he thinks he is. Out of practice since Watford, you know?"

I sigh. “Yeah, maybe I will text him, but I’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“That’s the spirit Si, hard to get and all that.”

* * *

**Simon Snow (6:45pm):** hows the presentation gone

It’s been two hours since I texted Baz.

I waited until this evening—until I was sure the presentation was finished and I had an excuse. But here I am, two hours later, sitting on the sofa and trying to focus on Bake Off instead of the clock. It’s Pastry Week, but all I can think about is Lamb and that photo of his fancy fucking Opera Cake he sent to Baz last Tuesday, and how delicious it looked. They’re probably feeding it to each other right now in a bloody hot tub.

 _Don’t spiral Simon, he’s probably just busy_. 

But busy with what? Busy with _who?_

I really should have gotten better answers from him at the station about whether he was seriously interested in me or not. 

Nobody’s ever made me feel like this before. I’ve never sat here wondering why they haven’t texted me back before, and it’s not like I haven’t been on dating apps and experienced ghosting. So why do I have a tension headache creeping up the back of my neck and a knot of disappointment growing in my stomach?

_What if some fancy French man in a posh suit offered him a cigarette and a shag and Baz has decided that he wants to live in Paris now?_

My phone buzzes harshly against the coffee table and I almost spill my crisps in my rush to pick it up.

**Grumpy 8:42pm:** Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone, Snow, I was too busy plotting.

I roll my eyes, it’s his favourite joke.

**Grumpy 8:43pm:** The presentation went well, aside from one member of the audience who seemed to be asking questions in an attempt to trip me up. It didn’t work, of course.

 **Simon Snow 8:44pm:** you hold and I’ll punch

 **Grumpy 8:44pm:** You’re a heathen, Snow.

 **Simon Snow 8:52pm:** how's your night been?

I groan at my response. Good grief—small talk, really Simon? Since when was I so _shy_ around Baz? It took me ages to think of something else to say, and _that’s_ what I come up with? I even used punctuation in some pathetic attempt to impress him. I hate myself.

**Grumpy 8:53pm:** I have had a perfectly wonderful evening, thank you.

What does he mean by _that?_ I’m tapping my fingers against the table when my phone vibrates again.

**Grumpy 8:56pm:** I suppose I should make sure you haven’t spent your evening flooding the bathroom?

 **Simon Snow 8:57pm:** oi

 **Simon Snow 8:57pm:** actually i went to pick up your new coffee maker

 **Simon Snow 8:58pm:** your welcome

 **Simon Snow 8:59pm:** qued for an entire lifetime and afterwards greggs was closed

 **Grumpy 9:00pm:** I'm touched beyond words by your sacrifice.

 **Simon Snow 9:01pm:** if youre gonna be a nobhead ill take it back

 **Grumpy 9:02pm:** That’s fine, the coffee in Paris has been glorious. Maybe I’ll just stay here.

I know it’s a joke but his response is making me fidgety.

**Simon Snow 9:04pm:** good riddance then. let me know where to send all your snooty stuff

 **Grumpy 9:05pm:** Lamb’s address is tacked to the fridge.

_He’s such a tosser. He’s such a fucking-_

**Grumpy 9:07pm:** It’s a joke, Snow.

He loves nothing more than getting under my skin, and he knows exactly how to do it. He always has. Well, fuck him.

**Tosser 9:20pm:** I have an Aerobar in my cupboard.

It’s a white flag.

He has _two_ Aeros in his cupboard. I eat them both and finish off the pack of biscuits Fiona sent him from Prague that he’s been trying to make last, and send him a picture of the empty wrappers.

**Tosser 10:02pm:** Touché.

His response immediately makes me grin down at my phone. I suppose I love getting under his skin too. 

Is this the way we flirt? We both enjoy needling at each other, teasing and seeing the other lose their composure. I distantly wonder if that means giving this a shot would be bad for us.

Baz is challenging, sure, but so am I. We’ve always met each other head on, and in school that was a recipe for disaster most of the time, but five years later I can see clearly how much both of us need this—this kind of back and forth. I can see how we match.

His snark has always sparked a fire in my belly but in this empty flat, armed finally with my acceptance, I can admit to myself that it’s _desire_. (And that I think he wants it, too.)

It’s not until the next morning when I’m setting up Baz’s pretentious coffee maker that I realise I never actually spoke to him about _“us.”_ I can already hear Penny telling me off— _“Jesus wept, Simon! Just text him right now and ask for his intentions!”_

I consider it, I honestly do. But I’m worried I’ll come across as clingy. Baz and I never text throughout the day (although sometimes I do send him memes of cats that look just as cranky as he does) and I don’t want him to think I’d be a clingy boyfriend.

(A boyfriend. _Baz’s_ boyfriend. Blimey.)

Surely if people are dating they text every day?

 _Are_ we dating?

No. I can’t just sit in the flat all day and overthink this. I grab my coat, switch on the coffee machine—I assume it needs to warm up or something—and I’m already texting Niall to see if he wants to go to the pub as I pull the door shut behind me.

* * *

When I arrive home, the hallway light doesn’t switch on. Now I’ve had a few beers while watching the football, but I’m not drunk enough to have somehow forgotten how lightswitches work.

I feel my way into the living room and try that switch too. Nothing. I take out my phone and use the torch while rushing into the kitchen. Nothing. I make my way over to the fridge freezer and pull up short when I step in a puddle of water.

Ah, shit.

**Simon Snow 8:52pm:** dont lose it but the food in the fridge freezer is all gone

 **Simon Snow 8:52pm:** not cuz i ate it

 **Simon Snow 8:53pm:** went out with niall and when i got back the electrics was off

 **Simon Snow 8:53pm:** think the new coffee maker is shite

 **Simon Snow 8:54pm:** took me a while to find the trip switch but its all good now

 **Simon Snow 8:55pm:** except the food i mean

 **Simon Snow 8:55pm:** im real sorry baz :(

I can see he’s read the messages. He’s likely figuring out the best insults to throw my way before he responds. I’m hoping he’s a few cocktails deep though, and that maybe that will stop him from trying to curse me through the phone.

My phone starts vibrating in my hand for a call and I feel intense jitters in my chest that I know have nothing to do with the anticipation of his potential rage over the spoiled food. I stare down at his photo on my screen—a mugshot I took of him a few weeks after I moved in, mid-rant over me leaving the mop bucket full of dirty water—contemplating whether I could get away with pretending he’s got the wrong number.

For pity’s sake, why am I so nervous to pick up? It’s just Baz.

I swipe to answer, and before I can even say hello, he's already talking. “So you set up the new coffee machine, and plugging it in overheated the internal sensing mechanism in the kitchen circuit?”

I blink a few times at the wall. “I don’t know what that means, Baz.”

“I’d explain it to you, Snow, but I’m fresh out of crayons." His response gets my back up but I push down my retort. _Flirting_.

“It’s fine, Simon. We probably just can’t have so many appliances switched on at once.”

“Ah, I see what you mean now.” Of course he knows about electrical circuits. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have all these fancy gadgets then, no one needs three juice makers.”

“They’re not all for juice, Snow. I’ve told you before; you have the juicer, yes, and then the smoothie maker, and then the Cuisinart for soup making. We aren’t all uncivilised brutes like you, some of us like to–”

“Sounds like a load of fancy tosser tripe to me, Baz.”

I hear him scoff down the line.

It’s probably best to stop winding him up, given the circumstances for the call. “I’m real sorry about the food, Baz. Bloody coffee machine,” I grumble.

“You’re nothing but a burden, Snow. A complete nightmare,” he mocks me in response, but his soft tone sets off jitters in my chest again and I realise that, maybe, he actually _likes_ that I’m a bit of a mess.

That and the beers have me feeling bold. “Don’t act like you aren’t missing me.”

“Quite frankly I forgot that you even existed,” he drawls, voice lilting. _Flirting._

I laugh and try not to think about how badly I want him here with me tonight. Right now. 

He cuts through my thoughts. “Meet me at the station tomorrow and we can go food shopping on the way back.”

Eight months of living together and we’ve never done that. Not once.

I try to push down the warmth that blooms in my chest at how domestic that sounds, but I think my breathy “okay” betrays me a little. Thankfully he ignores it and we settle into a comfortable silence. I hear cars pass by on his end, and the whistle of wind, and I wonder whether he’s cold.

“I had better go, Simon, I know Lamb wants to go home already.” His tone feels smooth and soft through the phone, like satin, and I find I’m curious to know if he’s been drinking, too. And whether it’s just the two of them.

“Oh, my apologies,” I gush with false sincerity, “wouldn’t want to upset Lamb.”

“You’re being absurd,” he chuckles.

I take a deep breath and decide to stop being an arsehole. So what if Baz has been out at a bar with Lamb? He can do what he wants. And even if he does decide he wants Lamb this weekend, if we're not together, that's his choice.

 _Are we together?_ I should just ask him.

But what if he says no?

“I’ll meet you at the station then. Be safe, yeah?”

“Sleep well, Simon,” he says gently in return before hanging up.

* * *

Baz texted me to meet him at 12:15, which means his train probably gets in at 12:30 and he doesn’t want me to be late.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time trying to decide what to wear. Baz might wear Versace any chance he gets, but it would be weird for me to turn up to go food shopping in my best Topman shirt. So, I’m playing it safe: white t-shirt, jeans, and my knock-off Vans. It’s not like Baz hasn’t seen me in worse, so fuck it. Plus, this isn’t a date! We’re just getting food. Together. For the flat… _our_ flat. I’m trying not to overthink the connotations of that.

It’s 12:25 when I arrive at Eurostar Security, two coffees in hand. It’s not that I’m trying to butter him up, but I figure Baz could be a little grumpy after travelling, and I’d rather start our day on a good footing, considering all of this is my fault.

I dordle around for five minutes, listening to a stranger playing the piano nearby, and then I see him. But, he’s not alone. It takes me a few seconds of confusion to place the silky auburn hair and sparkling smile, but then I realise the person he’s talking to is that Lamb guy from his placement.

By the time they reach me, I’m fuming.


	4. This is real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, the response to this fic has been amazing; 1-year-ago-Demi never would have expected to be waking up to so many lovely comments and DMs about their writing 🥺❤️❤️
> 
> I really really hope you like the end 🥰

** Simon**

  
“Snow, you remember I mentioned Lamb?” Baz says by way of introduction. The unspoken _behave yourself_ is written all over his face.

Lamb’s thin lips curve up into a polite smile. He leans in for kisses on the cheek like a true Parisian, and all I can think about is the fact that he’s probably been greeting Baz in this way. So close to his lips. On a daily basis since Baz left me on Friday.

I catch Baz’s eye over Lamb’s shoulder and he raises his eyebrow at me questioningly. I remind myself again not to be an arsehole.

I hand Baz his coffee and look at Lamb with what I hope is an apologetic face—even though no part of me is sorry. “Didn’t know you’d be here, mate.”

Lamb smiles at me dazzlingly. “That’s quite alright,” he gushes in his (admittedly quite sexy) French accent, “I’m spoiled with exceptionally good coffee in Paris.”

He says it like _‘Pa-ri’._ Wanker.

“So I hear,” I say, hoping I sound only half as bitter as I feel.

One glance at Baz let’s me know just how much he’s enjoying himself, the bastard.

Suddenly Lamb waves to someone behind us, and I turn to see a girl and a guy waving back, walking towards us. “Ah, it seems I must leave you both to it,” Lamb says, already leaning in to give us goodbye cheek kisses. I feel like I need a bath after all this.

“Thank you again for your hospitality this weekend, you’ve been very generous,” Baz says, as incredibly polite as ever. Lamb nods at him and I watch as he walks over to the others, wrapping them both in his arms and kissing each on the lips in turn. Very passionately.

I must look as shocked and confused as I feel because Baz explains, “They’re Lamb’s partners.” 

“Oh,” I reply, pretty stupidly. I blush heavily, too. It’s not that I’m judgemental, I’m just a little… well. Inexperienced, I guess. With one partner. Let alone two.

Baz smirks around the lip of his coffee cup, eying me in a way that makes me blush even harder. Before I can read too much into it, he turns and says, “Come on, you nightmare, let’s fill the fridge,” over his shoulder.

Baz spends the tube ride telling me about his trip to Paris and his PhD presentation, but I’ve definitely spent the last half hour watching his lips move and admiring the way his hair is falling into his face rather than listening. Because I’m allowed to do that now. (I think?)

I realise I never used to let myself linger over how he looked before. I mean, it’s not exactly easy to ignore how fucking fit he is, but I always told myself it was jealousy and therefore I should push it down.

Christ, Pen’s right, I’m so oblivious sometimes. I really do need to take the time to understand myself more. I worked hard on it, when I was younger, with my therapist; and I know I’ve grown a lot, but I guess the process doesn’t stop when therapy does.

I’m a little lost in my head on the walk to Tesco, my eyes stray to Baz continuously; his hair styled just right, his immaculate clothing—not a single thing out of place. You’d never have guessed he’d travelled across countries this morning. He’s always so graceful and put together. (Maybe I _should_ have worn that shirt.)

_Could you want me, the way I want you?_

I can’t just ask him that in a Tesco carpark. I’m seriously doubting whether I can ask him that at all. I get tongue-tied at the best of times—the idea of asking this perfect arsehole of a man whether he’d want to be with someone like _me_ sounds mortifying.

We grab a trolley and Baz says I have to push because he doesn’t trust me to be the one choosing products, but he rests a hand lightly against my lower back as we walk toward the fresh food aisle and I know I’m grinning like an absolute fool. 

_This feels so right. I love this. I love him._

His other hand is holding a detailed list he prepared on the Eurostar; it’s itemised by aisle type, and that’s so incredibly _Baz—_ so unnecessary and brilliant and pedantic—that I decide, when we get home, I have to bite the bullet and apply another thing my old therapist encouraged: _talking_.

* * *

  
The door latches shut behind us and I feel the finality of it in my chest. Panic claws at the edges of my brain and I fight to push it back.

 _Okay, Simon. This is it. You can’t get what you want without asking—without knowing what he wants, too. You asked him if the kisses were_ real, _but you were stupid and running on adrenaline and that doesn’t actually mean anything, does it?_

_Better questions, Simon._

Baz gets to work on emptying the bags and snaps at me over his shoulder to get a move on. If he notices my awkwardness—or if he feels awkward himself—he doesn’t show it. 

We work together in silence—save for the “watch it”s and “don’t shake that, Snow” and “no, the other shelf”—and it’s all so incredibly… anticlimactic.

I don’t know what I expected when we got home—it certainly wasn’t dramatic love confessions and snogging against the front door, rom-com style (although that would have been nice)—but this slap of reality feels all too close to _“nothing happened”_ to be calming.

Once all the shopping’s put away, Baz just wanders off. I don’t really know how to continue, so I just grab some cheese and biscuits and plonk myself down on the sofa—food is always a good start.

Baz faffs around in his bedroom for a while—unpacking, I assume—before eventually coming to join me. By this point I’ve demolished at least three quarters of the cheese and I’ve worked myself up into enough of a panic that I actually jump a little when he settles down next to me. (Closer than usual, I think.) I’m not surprised to find I don’t know how to act around him now he’s finally here.

He shoots me an amused look before glancing down at the table and scoffing loudly. “We’ve barely been back an hour and you’re already eating us out of house and home, Snow.”

Yep, he’s certainly feeling normal.

“I just. Er. It’s. Um.”

He turns to me with an eyebrow raised, and I’m suddenly reminded of that one time we got smashed together off of gin and I thought about wanting to lick it.

“Um. We should. Well–”

“Spit it out, Snow.” His words are harsh, but his tone isn’t. He sounds agitated, sure, but also… nervous? He’s not meeting my eyes anymore and there’s the trace of a blush highlighting his cheekbones. Maybe he’s not as blasé about all of this as I originally thought.

That makes me feel a little more brave—knowing that I’ve affected him in some way, even just a little. I can do this, I can start the talking if he needs me to.

I take a deep breath. Well, here goes nothing. (I can always flee to Penny and Ags in America if Baz shuns me.)

“We need to talk.”

“I _am_ talking. You’re the one who’s spluttering.”

I try not to let that instantly piss me off. Baz is tetchy whenever he has to talk about his emotions—I’ve heard him on the phone to Fiona. He’s a caged lion, mauling where it hurts most.

I know it’s because he feels vulnerable, because I used to do it too. Baz wields his sharp tongue the same way a hero wields their sword, as a method of protection. Still, it doesn’t make it sting any less. Can’t he stop being a twat for one second? I can’t keep kissing him just to shut him up.

Kisses. Talking. Right.

“You said you wouldn’t pretend, Baz.”

He opens his mouth to snap back, but then clearly thinks better of it, because he sighs and leans back against the sofa.

It takes him a long time to figure out what he wants to say. I don’t mind waiting. I purposefully focus on not fidgeting because I don’t want to spook him.

_Just say it, Baz. You either want me or you don’t. I’m either good enough, or I’m not._

Finally, he answers. “I think I just thought that if I acted like it didn’t matter, then it wouldn’t.”

“You… don’t want it to matter?” You don’t want _me_ to matter?

“I.” He stops and runs his tongue along his teeth. I watch the movement against his upper lip. He sighs heavily before continuing, “You drive me insane, Simon. You always have. In literally every way possible. And you’ve never seemed to want… this.”

Something in his tone has me reaching out to grab the hand on his knee. He finally looks at me and I see what I thought I would reflected in his face. He’s scared. 

_Same_ , I think. _Me bloody too._ But I’m not going to let us be choked by our fears anymore. And he deserves full honesty from me, just like I deserve it from him.

 _I love you_ , I think his way, but that’s one truth I don’t know if I can say yet. I don’t know if he’d want to hear it.

“Baz.” I take another deep breath and force myself to keep meeting his eyes. _Believe me, believe me, believe me…_ “I know I said this was real at the station, but I need you to know that I’ve been on my own for a long time, and I’m terrible at this whole relationship and… and love. Thing.”

“Fine. Understood.” His voice is clipped and cold, his mouth a thin line as he moves his hand from under mine and begins to stand.

I’m a little shocked by his change in demeanour. 

“Wh-what?” I stutter out. “Where– Baz, just wait!” I reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back down to the sofa. He turns to look at where I’m gripping him—half begging him to stay—with narrowed eyes, and I decide to just push ahead.

“What I’m saying is… I just. Well, I was hoping maybe you’d give me a chance? Maybe I can learn?”

His head shoots up, but he just stares at me incredulously, as if I’ve sprouted extra ears. Words don’t look like they’re coming soon and it’s making me incredibly uncomfortable; Baz always has something to say. So, in true Simon Snow fashion, I just start rambling:

“Uhhh… or whatever it is you want, I guess? I, um. Well, I like you Baz. Like _a lot,_ and I don’t know if I could even be casual with you, you know? You’re just so… _well_. I mean I’m not great at relationships either, I’ve never been in a truly serious one but if you _wanted—_ “

He slowly slides his hand up into mine and it thankfully jolts me out of my poorly executed speech. Shit, this whole talking thing is definitely not going as planned...

He tugs on my arm but this time I can’t meet his eyes; I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I do, after what I’ve just said.

“You want to be my boyfriend?” he asks, his tone indicating that his eyebrow has assumed the position. But his voice shakes a little, and the reminder that he’s nervous too gives me courage.

“Well.” I rub at the back of my neck but force myself to make direct eye contact—this bit is important. “Yeah, Baz.” I smile at him, hopeful. _Say yes, say yes, say yes…_ “Your terrible boyfriend. If you’ll let me?”

He smiles back at me—it’s pretty, he’s so pretty—and bends down to kiss me delicately, as if he’s testing the waters. It’s just as good as before, even if it’s not as heated. I return the kiss— _obviously—_ but I pull back too soon and raise my eyebrows at him questioningly.

_We both know kisses aren’t enough Basil mate, I need to hear you say it._

He laughs in disbelief, leans forward and mumbles, “Of course I want that, Snow,” against my lips.

“Really?”

“Simon, I’ve been loving you, hating you, _wanting you_ for most of my life.”

I’m speechless, and so I do the only thing I can think of—I kiss him so fiercely that I know we’re both going to have bruises tomorrow. It’s more of a tackle really; limbs tangling, teeth clashing, sofa cushions dislodging and tumbling to the floor. Hands here, there, everywhere; hair and buttons and eventually sliding against smooth skin.

It’s a mess, just like we are. It’s perfect.

Later, when I’m sweaty and disheveled and definitely overdue that bath, I roll onto my side and tip Baz’s face up to mine. He smirks at me in that sexy way he does—sharp and smug—but his eyes are soft, and I finally decide to tell him.

“I love you, Baz,” I say.

And it’s definitely not too soon. Maybe it’s actually sort of late.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic now has a “sequel” of sorts... you can read it here 🥰:
> 
> [Three Sheets to the Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018483)  
> 
> 
> Thank you to [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) for beta’ing and being an all round great friend ❤️
> 
> You can find me on tumblr here: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰


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